Black Joker, Red Joker
by Hane no Zaia
Summary: If there is method to his madness, it is one known by him alone. Time means little to him, yet at the same time, it means everything to him. Time had become distorted, disjointed, and he – an anomaly who is a product of that same world – has been sent back; sent back to set it right, like he had originally been born to do, as the Destroyer of Time. Sequel to tDoT.
1. Abaddon

_This story… is apparently some kind of sequel to The Destroyer of Time, depicting what took place some time after we left off in the aforementioned story. As for the length, it will either be three chapters or more, __if__ there is a demand for it._

_Disclaimer: I obviously don't own D. Gray – Man (which might be a pity to some and a relief to others…)_

_Cheers._

**- o0o -**

**I – Abaddon – I**

**- o0o -**

**_"…Time is out of joint: O cursed spite,_ _That ever I was born to set it right…"_**

**- o0o -**

_They were familiar, the words of a troubled young man, conveyed by a renowned playwright…_

_He has never been much of an avid reader – not much of a reader at all for that matter, and especially not of Shakespeare – but for some reason, certain bits and pieces of it – fragments of a play witnessed at some point in time – still lingers in his mind._

**- o0o -**

"_**To be, or not to be: that is the question…"**_

**- o0o -**

"_**To be, or not to be…"**_

**- o0o -**

_He looks up towards the crescent hanging in the clear night sky, seemingly addressing it. "Such is the question…"_

_His breath is like a white cloud when it comes into contact with the chilly night air. "…But what is the answer?"_

_He receives no answer, but the wind – previously gone still and silent – suddenly blows strongly again, carrying snowflakes with it and scattering them across the landscape._

_Silver-grey eyes watch them fall, and soon, a small but very much present smile spreads across the face of the boy – no, he is already a teenager, though a short and skinny one at that._

"_Hey! Fool! Get your arse down from there!"_

_The slight smile vanishes within an instant and the aforementioned Fool narrows his eyes slightly and peers down at the noisy person standing there at the foot of the tree, looking up at him in clear disapproval._

"_We're breaking camp and moving on, so hurry the Hell up and get down from there!"_

_The narrowed eyes widen momentarily, and the look of mild disapproval which had been reflected back at the one below morphs into something akin to a smirk, following which the one above makes his way down below, jumping from the high branch and seemingly slowing his descent right before touching the ground._

"_Hey, Fool, give it a rest, would you? You're not on stage…"_

_The proclaimed Fool decidedly ignores him, bowing low in acknowledgement of the hidden compliment._

"_Hey, Fool…"_

_The fool looks up, though the domino mask placed over the upper half of his face partially conceals it._

"_Who are you really, beneath it all?"_

_The fool shrugs mildly in return before adjusting his attire._

**- o0o -**

"_**This above all, to thine own self be true…"**_

**- o0o -**

"_Yet…"_

**- o0o -**

"_**To be, or not to be: that is the question…"**_

**- o0o -**

"_**To be, or not to be…"**_

**- o0o -**

_A haunted face, carrying a distinct red scar, shows up within the frame of a broken mirror._

_Wide eyes are reflected in it. Normally, they are silver-grey, but now, they seemingly take on the colour of amber from the flame of a lit candle standing nearby._

_Amber is bad; amber is dangerous._

_He knows as much, but still, while it's a much dreaded colour, it's still one of longing._

_Amber is good; amber is protective._

_Amber is strange; yet familiar._

"_Who are you?"_

_He addresses the reflection in the mirror, and for a brief moment, it seems to flicker._

_It distorts, and for a brief moment, there's someone else standing there in his place._

_Hair; a beautiful dishevelled mop of dark red partially obscures a mask which is both familiar and unfamiliar._

_The mask is white and seemingly soulless, covered in strange intricate patterns, but it is soon removed, revealing greyish skin and familiar amber-coloured eyes and the very same scar, only mirrored._

**- o0o -**

"_Bastard…" _

_There is a hoarse voice echoing in his head from time to time, weak yet so full of experienced betrayal._

"_You lied to me… all this time, you…"_

_The one reflected in the mirror reaches out, placing a hand flat against the looking glass, seemingly voicing an unheard apology to the echoing voice._

"_I thought… I thought you said we were in this together… that you'd help me through all of this… but you… all along… all along you…"_

_The other's image flickers once-twice-trice and then seems to distort completely, and once the image clears, it's his own image that greets him._

_There is another voice echoing inside of him, calm yet seemingly steeped in sadness._

**- o0o -**

"_Don't worry, Allen. You've still got chances to set things right."_

**- o0o -**

"_For you, there's still time…"_

**- o0o -**

Time…

The comings and goings of the sun…

The waxing and waning of the moon…

The passing of seasons…

The ageing of man…

Time…

Distorted…

Disjointed…

Time…

**- o0o -**

"_Interfering with the course of time is forbidden…" _

**- o0o -**

"_Yet – in this world…"_

**- o0o -**

A shadow or a mirage is reflected beneath the cold glass surface…

It is proof; a piece of evidence of the distorted world, of disjointed time…

It is a face in the mirror; the reflection of another self of another time…

It is a memory of a future yet to come, one which had to be avoided at all costs…

Again, there is a hand resting against the other side of the looking glass, black as the night in comparison to his own which is still a dark red…

**- o0o -**

"_Don't worry. You've still got chances to set things right."_

**- o0o -**

"_For you, there's still time…"_

**- o0o -**

Time…

Distorted…

Disjointed…

Time…

Broken once, yet mended through fusing broken links back together in its chain, enforcing it…

His first memory – the first one he couldn't openly dismiss as one of countless nightmares plaguing his senses – is of cold air and snow, of pain and of a warm sticky liquid pouring down his face with its origin in the area around his left eye, while salty liquid appear to be overflowing from the other, leaving him temporarily blinded.

Before him are the blackened remains of something vaguely humanoid, the once-container of a trapped human soul of someone very dear to him. Mana Walker had been his name; Mana the Madman, a man broken by sorrow who had been on a seemingly endless quest to find a brother since many years deceased, likely without knowing that said brother's memories had been sealed into his most recent companion.

In hindsight, said companion – the one who took the name Allen – wishes he could have told him about that. However, said knowledge had only become available to him once the man had already departed, once the man's departing words were still fresh in his mind, consisting of a curse followed by words of gratitude.

As for the curse, he had certainly deserved that one.

As for the gratitude, he is still undecided.

**- o0o -**

Time – broken once but mended – means little to him.

The sun rises and sets and the moon waxes and wanes, both of them occurring and reoccurring at regular intervals, just as the seasons come and go and people come and go with them.

Life at the circus – with the circus – is one spent in motion, because he is always moving in one way or the other – if not in a physical sense, then in a mental one – though he often does so without a clear motive, either allowing himself to be pulled along with someone else's flow or simply by allowing the direction of the wind determine his next destination, much to the frustration of those around him.

Had he not been such an excellent performer, then the esteemed Ringmaster would no doubt have thrown him out a long time ago. However, seeing that he is just that and had at some point made himself virtually indispensable due to the integral parts that he played, he remains for as long as he wants, up until the point when he does not.

As swiftly as a change in direction of the wind, he will disappear and move along, leaving as swiftly as he has come and seemingly indifferent in regards to the damage he usually causes whenever he suddenly changes direction and location, either taking up on an offer from a rivalling circus or disappearing for some period of time before turning up once more, with a new name, a new look, new tricks and new manners to match it.

Few ever bother trying to get to know the person hiding beneath the many masks of Allen Walker; even fewer know that the white-haired teenager with the peculiar habits even has a name other than the ones belonging to his many stage incarnations. None hesitate to call him eccentric; many even venture into the territory of calling him outright mad. Many think of him as a genius, albeit a rather unstable one at that, but somewhat of a madman or not, the one known as Allen Walker does not seem to be bothered in the slightest.

If there is method to his madness, it is one known by him and him alone.

Time – broken once but mended – means little to him, yet at the same time, it means everything to him.

The course of time has changed, with its flow having been distorted.

He is a being existing both as a part of it and as an anomaly. He is a familiar existence, yet at the same time an alien one, with memories of another time imposed upon a much younger mind, leaving him partially broken as a result. The flow of time is one which was never meant to be crossed, and the world as it is strives to remain in balance and to regain said balance if it has been lost, no matter what it takes.

Time had become distorted, disjointed, and he – an anomaly who is a product of that same world – had been sent back; sent back to set it right, like he had originally been born to do, as the Destroyer of Time.

**- o0o -**

Another place, another day, another time, filled with vaguely familiar faces of people never met, some more vivid than others…

"You there, what's your name?"

He looks up, finally acknowledging the presence of the pigtailed girl he had already been watching out of the corner of his eye, an influx of foreign memories fluttering about, beating softly against the frames of his mind like butterfly wings before scattering as he looks down once more at his hands as they continue polishing his throwing knives with a great deal of care, and he hums somewhat thoughtfully. "That's a good question…"

Then, he jumps up and startles her, doing a brief somersault in the air before landing on the other side of her as she hastily turns, her vivid dark eyes still wide in surprise but not frightened, and he bows theatrically, stepping fully into the latest role he has assigned for himself, which is that of a partially airborne acrobat with a keen interest in sharp object and in piercing other things with them.

"You don't have a name?" She sounds both surprised and vaguely amused, already caught up in his pace without even knowing it.

He straightens back up, lifting a hand to his face to make sure his nearly ever-present domino mask is still securely in place, even though he knows the other doesn't know his face even though he certainly knows hers. "I have plenty of names, but none of them really seems to stick for very long."

"Then what do I call you?" she asks him, and he lets out a longsuffering sigh.

"Unless you wish to be creative and put a name on this humble performer yourself, then you may call me the Flying Fool if you wish, seeing that it is the name I am currently known by," he responds, earning himself a slight giggle though it is soon stifled as the girl suddenly looks guilty.

"I can't call you that," she says.

"Why not?" he responds, finding it all rather amusing. "It's just a name."

"Still… I can't." Truly, as considerate as ever.

"How remarkably considerate of you; I have trouble getting attached to the name myself… so let's try again, shall we? I'm Joker, and I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss…?"

Her name is still a mystery to him, but even without knowing it, he knows her past and possibly even her future.

"Lenalee, Lenalee Lee. And I'm pleased to meet you as well, Mr. Joker."

Lenalee. Ah, her. Lee. She has a brother, he thinks, a brother with a name starting with the letter K. "Aw, would you lay off the 'Mr.'? It makes me feel way older than I really am."

She looks up at him then, curiously. "How old are you?" she asks before catching herself. "Um… Sorry, I hope I'm not intruding or anythi-…"

"How old am I indeed?" he responds with a smile. "That's a splendid question, I dare say. Let's see here now…"

He uses his fingers to count, an old habit stemming from the days when things were less complicated. "Yes, yes… If memory serves me right, then I am either fifteen or sixteen or thereabouts…"

"You're sixteen?!" She appears to be in disbelief after his latest confession.

"Actually, now that I think about it… I'm probably still fifteen. But you know… age is a relative thing." Age is related to time, and time is a relative thing as he feels older than he is physically, marked by the experiences of another self.

"I'm sixteen," she reveals, oblivious to the fact that he is already very much aware.

So young, he thinks. Too young, he thinks.

"Still," she suddenly says, and he tilts his head slightly to the side in question. "Why are you in a place like this? Don't you have any family to go to?"

He just shrugs mildly in response and then he spreads his arms to his sides, gesturing at his surroundings. "My family is right here… these people are the only family I'll ever need," he says before leaning in somewhat conspiringly, lowering his voice. "Still… that is not the question you ought to ask now, is it?"

Truthfully, he already knows why she is there, but formalities are formalities. Yet, instead of asking the questions she wants to ask, she apologises. "I'm sorry… I'm keeping you from something, am I not?"

He tilts his head mildly to the side, feigning surprise. "No, not really. I just thought you wouldn't wish to waste any more time seeing that it'll be pitch black outside in less than half an hour…"

At the seeming realisation and at the prospect of going back to whence she came – through a thick dark forest, that is – she actually pales slightly.

He touches her shoulder lightly, stopping her from making a speedy departure. "Oh, don't worry; we may talk yet," he says, snatching a nearby lantern. "I'll escort you out."

She appears both comforted and mildly alarmed as he herds her outside and down the path leading towards the thick woods separating the circus' temporary location from the town on the other side of it. "But is this really alri-…"

"Of course it's alright," he scoffs at her. "Who would I be if I allowed a young lady to travel alone through the woods after dark? Besides, I haven't admired the night sky in quite a while, so why not?"

Once again, she apologises, and he dismisses her. "Why are you sorry?" he asks, wondering when and how she became so insistent on apologies, recalling memories of events not yet having taken place. "I would probably have ended up going on a stroll anyhow, so this time is as good as any…"

He pauses briefly, and they continue their way down the path and enter the woods before he brings his hands together with a slight clapping sound, jostling the small lantern as he does. "Now… questions. You had questions to ask, did you not? Ask away."

Even with the lantern spreading some light on their surroundings, he doesn't actually see the hesitant look sent his way, but he certainly feels it. "This is about the disappearances as of late, is it not?" he finally asks, his voice calm and serious and largely devoid of his usual amount of seeming amusement, and she looks up in alarm, actually frozen in the spot where she is standing, looking at him with wide eyes that are more frightened and wary than curious.

"How did you know?" she questions, and he can tell how their seemingly dark and desolate surroundings unnerve her greatly, as she realises she has just stepped out into the woods with a virtual stranger and an armed one at that, seeing that the performer is still very much in possession of his throwing knives.

Knowing all that, he smiles disarmingly, and she unconsciously relaxes a bit, as though unaware of the fact that even coldblooded killers are perfectly capable of smiling sweetly if they only put their minds to it. Then, he turns slightly, looking out into the darkness in-between the trees a bit further away, his face once again serious. "This business is one where people are prone to leave and never be seen again," he says, glancing at her briefly before once again focusing his attention on what lay further down the path and beyond it. "And as such, I didn't think much of it until recently, since these latest disappearances do not fit into the general pattern…"

"There is a pattern?" she echoes, and steps closer to him again, following along as he continues walking.

"Obviously…" he responds, without spite. "The thing which holds true for all people who're involved with the circus is that we're all drifters in one way or the other…"

"We don't remain in the same place for long and if we do, we have a tendency to get restless, and some of us are more restless than others," he continues, shrugging mildly. "I am one of the more restless ones; I feel like I'm going to suffocate if I stay in the same place for too long…"

"Like you're going to suffocate?" she echoes again, and he nods.

"Yes… I think one of my previous companions may have rubbed off on me, but not necessarily in a bad way… You see, in his world, one needed to keep on walking, to keep moving forward; to him, stopping was the same as dying… He was a funny guy and he had some really funny ideas, but I'm sure he had his reasons…"

Yes, because he was a broken man looking for someone who had been by his side ever since a cold winter's day for what seemed to be such a long time ago…

"Still," he goes on. "About that pattern… yes…"

"What is it?" she asks, staying close to him as they venture deeper into the woods.

He lets out another thoughtful hum. "The thing is… when people decide to 'disappear', they normally take most of their stuff with them, or at least the stuff you can carry…" he says. "And lately, people have 'disappeared' without taking any of their immediate possessions with them… which is kind of strange…"

It isn't strange – not to him, at any rate. Still, her eyes widen in realisation. For some reason, it makes him chuckle. "The look on your face tells me that you probably know more about this matter than I do, but I will not press you for answers," he says, pausing briefly in his stride, hearing her yelp slightly in surprise as he snatches her hand, bowing down slightly before raising it to his lips. "Instead, allow me to wish you good luck. I hope you'll find what you're looking for eventually."

Reclaiming her hand, though visibly unnerved, she thanks him.

He smirks in response. "Ah, but Miss Lee… I did little worth mentioning and even less worth thanks…" he says, holding out the lantern for her to take, and as she accepts it from him, he bows anew. "Even so, I bid you goodnight."

He is once again in motion, though a slight tug on his cape forces him to pause and look back at the female exorcist where she stands, having grasped the edge of it. "Yes, milady?"

She hesitates again, seemingly conflicted in regards to what to make of him. Friend or foe, no one knows, and that is the way things should be, for now…

"Could I… possibly come by tomorrow as well?" she finally asks, seemingly having deemed him more of a potential ally than a potential foe. "In case I…"

Briefly, he wonders whether she feels it too, the way he does, a strange feeling of déjà vu.

"I'm sorry." She mistakes his silence for disapproval. "Forget about it."

She knows nothing of the future, but he knows that she has glimpsed it. He knows that she dreams, constantly, of a world which stands on the brink of ruin. He knows, because he too has seen it; he knows, because he too has seen her. He knows, but she doesn't; things are as they should be, because knowledge of a world to come is heavy indeed and the girl he knows is strong but also fragile and easily broken. He knows that her world is made out of her precious people; he knows, because he was once one of them, just as he knows just how easily it will start breaking apart any day now unless…

"If you wish to drop by, make sure you're careful on your way," he says, pulling his the edge of his cape free from her slackened grip before saluting her with a smile. "Since there's really no telling what might be lurking in these woods in times like these…"

He knows himself to be playing with fire; that he is treading dangerously close to what seems to be the edge of oblivion. Still, partially fragmented or not, some part of him is still human, a teenage boy who wants little more than to finally set things right…

He seemingly leaves her to her fate and returns to camp. However, the imprint the meeting leaves is undeniable, and he reminds himself that it's about time for him to move on anyways. He should really know better than to get attached by now, but old habits die hard. Still, even so, he must learn to outlive them.

**- o0o -**

Another place, another day, another time…

He doesn't know how much time has passed since their last meeting. It could have been days, it could have been weeks or even months, but in the end, it doesn't matter. The situation is very much familiar too, and even though the setting is definitely different from the one in his memories, the participants are largely the same. Somehow, he can't help but think some divine force out there is messing with him.

"Lower your weapon."

There is the tip of a sword – of a katana – nearly pressing against his throat, and in return, he holds one of his own knives to the other's throat, smiling dangerously. "Only if you do the same."

The sword's name is Mugen and is not only sturdy and sharp but also carries the power of illusion. He knows that, just as vividly as he remembers having been cut by it when first facing it. It would suffice to say that it had not been a very pleasant experience, and with the tip of that very sword resting a bit too close to his jugular, he knows better than to attempt anything more than to keep the tip of his own knife right where it is.

"Kanda." One of the swordsman's companions – an equally familiar eye-patch-and-bandana-wearing redhead – speaks up as a warning, and after a few tense moments, the raven-haired swordsman finally yields, slowly withdrawing the sword before finally sheathing it in a fluid motion.

Allen – wearing the guise of his latest stage persona, the Red Joker – responds by swiftly sliding his own weapons back into their hiding places in his wide silken sleeves, bowing before them in a flurry of moving fabric, ribbons and feathers attached both to his long-sleeved costume as well as to his mask. Both had been crafted with the image of a firebird – a phoenix in red, yellow and gold – in mind, with the long sleeves becoming reminiscent of wings and with the mask and its accompanying long-haired wig carrying distinct birdlike appearance. However, it was also a way of paying tribute to the familiar face in the mirror, the vivid imprint of someone long gone but never forgotten, someone he had met once, yet would never meet.

"I am a bit high-strung at the moment, so pardon my lack of manners," he finally says, folding his arms across his chest all while hiding them up his sleeves at the same time, overlooking the exorcists with a slight smile adorning his features. "I was not expecting guests."

Hearing his voice – albeit sounding slightly different compared to the last time around – the third member of the exorcist party looks up in surprise, her eyes widening in clear recognition. "You're… it's you."

He can't seem to decide on whether he should be bothered or simply overjoyed by this, seeing that she is somehow standing before him once again and that she has brought friends along this time around. "Ah, Miss Lee, isn't it?" He is still undecided, but he smiles. "With a companion and… is it a fiancé?"

He throws the raven-haired swordsman a look, taking a great deal of amusement not only in how said swordsman stiffens but also in how the redhead covers his mouth looking like he is going to explode into laughter at any second and in how the girl holds up her hands before her, waving them slightly as if desperate to dispel this notion. "No, no, no, it's nothing like that. He's just a friend."

He looks to his surroundings, discreetly checking for the presence of golems. Finding none in the air, he chuckles. "Pardon my awful sense of humour," he then says. "I got it from one of my previous companions; it is highly contagious."

His playful response earns him another snort from the familiar swordsman. "Idiot."

His smile widens momentarily, before diminishing ever so slightly as the girl steps forward with a solemn look on her face and a question evident in her eyes. "Why did you leave?"

Ah, so she had come looking for him after all then?

"I'll spare you the boring details." He smiles bleakly. "Simply put, I had a bit of a falling out with another performer…"

"A bit of a falling out?" she echoes, and he recalls the events leading up to his most recent departure.

Yes, that other performer – the one with foul tricks and the sharp tongue. "He tried to kill me, so I took my stuff and left before he got back up again."

"He what?" The shock is evident in the faces of the exorcists – barring one, that is. "He tried to kill you? Why?"

He shrugs mildly in response. "You sound awfully surprised, but these sorts of things happen way more often than you think," he says. "All in all, I believe that he is the fourth person who has tried to kill me within the last year or so… which is part of the reason as to why I tend to move around a lot…"

"What about the other parts?" the redhead asks, and he tilts his head slightly in response, seemingly thoughtful.

"Well… for one thing, I do not like being restrained… and as such, I would like to retain my drifting lifestyle," he finally responds. "Staying in the same place for too long makes me nauseous; I feel trapped and I was never a beast bred for a life in captivity. Perhaps this is due to the fact that I have never known the comforts of a stable home, seeing that I am unlikely to miss what I have never known and we all fear what we do not know…"

"I'm sorry." She didn't even ask the question, but she still apologises.

"Why are you sorry?" he asks, honestly curious. "This lifestyle is the best thing that has ever happened to me and I wouldn't trade it for anything, seeing that I actually like being what I am."

"Still, don't you miss having a family?" Questions, all these questions, why all these questions?

"Ah, family," he laughs anew. "No, not really…"

"What I miss is not a concept, but an individual who left this world a long time ago," he explains, a hint of nostalgia entering his voice. "He was by far more of a family to me than my actual parents were, seeing that the only thing they really did was to bring me into this world for their own selfish reasons before abandoning me to its cruelties simply because I didn't turn out the way they had expected…"

"They abandoned you?" she echoes, and her redheaded companion looks up at him with keen interest.

"Something like that." He retains his smile. "They sold me to a circus, but it's basically the same thing," he quips somewhat cheerfully in return, taking a fair amount of delight in the looks of shock that are sent his way, with even the stone-faced swordsman's posture changing ever so slightly in reaction to his statement while the others are a bit more vocal in their reactions.

"They what?!"

"They sold you?! What kind of-… I'm so sorry." Apologies, yet again. Why all these apologies?

"Don't be," he goes on, retaining his seeming cheerfulness. "Rather, be happy for me… because although they were certainly far from ideal, my parents unwittingly put me right where I belonged... as a freak amongst freaks."

In every sense of the word…

"A freak?" The redhead seems positively intrigued. "Why would you call yourself a freak?"

He shrugs mildly in response. "But that is what I am, so why wouldn't I?" he says, removing his hands from his sleeves and pushing one of them slightly aside, baring a small patch of blackened skin showing between the end of the sleeve of the shirt he's wearing beneath his costume and his gloves, also black. "I was born this way. My entire arm is like this, from my fingertips to my shoulder. It has always been this way."

It is a half-truth, but still a dangerous one. He is by no means oblivious to the implications – to the danger – of him doing just that, but finds himself driven to do it all the same.

"Cool…" The redhead leans closer. "Can I have a closer look?"

"Some other time, perhaps." He withdraws the hand and returns it to its earlier state of concealment, bowing slightly to signal his imminent departure. "Now, if you would excuse me…"

They let him go – for the moment, at any rate – though he can tell that they are still watching.

Yet again, it seems as though it is time for him to move on.

He exits the tent. Stepping out into the fresh air, an autumn wind blows past him, continuing eastward. He turns his head slightly, making sure there is no one watching him. Having confirmed this, he heads towards the outskirts of the camp.

Once he finds a location he deems private enough and after he scanning the area to make sure he is alone, he tears the abominable mask from his face and pulled away the accompanying wig at the same time, discarding them next to him onto the ground. Then, before continuing, he takes a deep breath, reaching into his costume and pulling out a new mask which was all black and much simpler in its design, putting it on. Then, having done that, he undoes the colourful sash holding the upper part of his costume together, turning it inside out to reveal an exact mirror image of his other costume, only black, and thus proving to be a fair bit of contrast to his otherwise gaudy appearance as the Red Joker.

After combing a hand through his hair a couple of times while taking a few deep breaths, he opens his eyes again after having closed them briefly to calm himself, already halfway settled into his other much less seen stage persona of the Black Joker.

To return or not return, that is the question…

**- o0o -**

Another place, another day, another time…

He doesn't know how long the monocle-wearing gentleman in the fancy coat has been standing there, but the other has probably been standing there for a while, watching him in eerie silence. He greets him calmly, without hesitation. "Good morning."

"Good morning," the other greets him back, though there is a mild hint of surprise evident in his tone.

Allen says nothing, his eyes regarding the other for a few more moments before he looks back down at the black and white keys he has absentmindedly been running his fingers over. For once, he is out of costume, and this makes him uneasy somehow.

"You seem a bit familiar." The well-known stranger speaks to him. "Have we met before?"

Allen looks back up from the blindingly white keys, turning his head slightly so that he can look at the other through the corner of his eye. "It's entirely possible," he says, keeping his voice perfectly level. "It's a small world after all."

The stranger regards him in silence. He averts his eyes, highly unused to such scrutiny while not hiding behind one of his many masks. He feels almost vulnerable for a brief moment, and while distancing himself mentally from it all, he becomes increasingly aware of the sound of feet stepping on dirt, drawing closer to him. Even so, while aware of the other's approach, he nearly startles when the other is suddenly standing right beside him, looking down at the instrument with keen interest for a while before his eyes – both of them an eerily familiar shade of amber – come to rest upon Allen where he stands. "Do you play?" the gentleman asks.

Allen takes a small step aside, feeling somewhat cornered as the stranger's eyes bear down upon him. Still, he looks straight up into the other's eyes. "I do, occasionally," he responds, unwavering. "I can't say I'm very good at it though."

"Will you play something for me?" the gentleman requests.

"It depends," Allen responds, taking another step away from the man all while retaining eye contact. "I might not know it."

"Then…" The gentleman steps even closer to the instrument, positioning his hands onto the keys.

Soon, a melody – familiar yet unfamiliar – rises from the instrument, and he actually cringes when it assaults his ears, tickling memories lying hidden beneath. It triggers something within him, and he feels dizzy and like he is going to be sick. Then, the music comes to a sudden stop, and he opens his eyes – unaware as to when he had closed them, just as he is unaware as to when he had sunk down into a crouch with his hands pressed tightly against his ears. He removes his hands from his ears and looks up, finding the gentleman standing there, looking down at him with a mixture of something which might have been concern with something predatory and almost hungry.

"This melody…" the amber-eyed man says, crouching down before him. "Do you recognise it?"

He remains frozen in place even as the man reaches out towards him, gloved fingertips brushing against his cheek, wiping away tears he is not even aware of having shed. Then, the amber-eyed stranger withdraws, straightening up as Allen does the same before putting a few more steps worth of distance between them.

He closes his eyes and brings his arm up, dragging his sleeve against them to wipe away the remains of the tears that had apparently sprung from them. "I'm sorry," he finally says, averting his eyes once more. "I'm not feeling very well."

The amber-eyed gentleman just hums thoughtfully in response.

**- o0o -**

He is decidedly relieved when the gentleman finally leaves, even while knowing it is by no means the last he will see of him. Still, with the man seemingly out of sight, he swiftly springs into action. He swiftly dons another mask and another name, and is gone before dawn, already headed towards another place.

**- o0o -**

He moves on, but he is followed.

There are eyes out there in the shadows, watching him now on a nearly constant basis.

At times, he can see them too – the writhing souls of the myriad of akuma – watching him as he passed along, seeing that his curse – the one given to him by Mana the Madman – is still very much active.

At times – when the scrutiny becomes too much – he goes after them, slicing them cleanly through with the claws of his Innocence. When he lashes out at them, they keep their distance. Only a few ever attack, and the ones that do are swiftly sent to the afterlife, their souls liberated from imprisonment. Still, even so, they keep on coming, like a never-ending swarm of locusts.

When he feels the needs to do so, he deals with them, but other times, he merely pushes on. Steadily, he moves eastward, and he mostly does so by foot, travelling by roads and through forests. At times, when he feels like it, he seeks out humans and – one way or the other – gains the means to get food and other necessities, sometimes through occasional street performances and sometimes through stealing. Other times, he avoids civilisation for days at the time, sleeping in trees and hunting his own food.

He walks until the soles of his feet are arrays of blisters, and then he sits under a tree up on a hill next to a road of what could possibly be a rural part of France, considering his options. He sits there for what could possibly have been hours, watching the occasional carriage pass by up until the point when one actually stops and the peasant holding the reins looks to him with a mixture of suspicion and ill-concealed curiosity.

The man opens his mouth and asks him about what he is doing out there and where he is headed, and he shrugs mildly in response, weariness evident in his movements. He understands what the man is saying, even if it's in French, but he can't speak; he rakes over his memories, but nothing useful pops back up so he gives up and focuses on the man instead and on what the man is saying. The man finally asks if he is dumb and deaf, and Allen smiles back up at him, cheekily responding in French that he is not dumb, just English. This earns him an amused snort from the man, who then motions for him to join him up on the carriage, and he is not late to do so, thankfully accepting the apple the man hands him.

The man is headed towards Paris.

Allen tags along.

**- o0o -**


	2. Baptism

_Not very proof-read, but what the Hell. _

**- o0o -**

**II – Baptism – II**

**- o0o -**

The Paris he sees looks very much – nearly identical – to the one he vaguely remembers, and that proves very convenient, seeing that he has a fair idea as to which places to stick to and which places to avoid. It's a big city, and thus, it attracts many other performers, making it fairly easy to blend in amongst street performers such as acrobats and mimes and whatnot. Still, he keeps his performances to a minimum once he has earned enough money to buy himself a decent coat, and he gets one with a hood this time around, foregoing the eventual need of a cap or something to cover his hair. The coat he buys is obviously not a new one and is slightly tattered in places along the borders, but he finds that such a ragged appearance suits him very well and fits much better with his image as a travelling performer than a new one would, and he is very happy that he had the foresight to buy it when it starts raining heavily, leaving him to seek shelter. Evidently, it does not spare him entirely from the humidity, but if he had not had it, he knows he would have been drenched.

He barely even reflects on where he is standing before the mighty toll of church bells ring out above him, and he looks up, finally noticing the numerous deadened eyes looking down at him with seeming accusation, carved in stone as they are, as his temporary shelter is none other than the small concave space next to one of the entrances of a vaguely familiar cathedral. Its gates are locked for him – closed, at any rate – and though he looks towards them briefly, he does not reach out to bang his fist against them to demand entrance. He does not, for he is content as long as he is not out there in the rain, even if he has to spend the rest of the afternoon and probably night with a bunch of staring stone-faced images – old yet surprisingly vivid representations – carved into the rock with a great deal of detail. The monks – or perhaps apostles, considering their number and seeming attention towards the guy standing in the middle of it all in-between the two parallel gates leading inwards – almost seem to be looking down at him where they stand lined up along the side of the wall, and they are far from alone, seeing that a myriad of saints, knights, kings, angels and demons seems to be following their example.

It's an eerie feeling, and even though common sense tells him he has little to fear from inanimate stone representations, he finds that he can't escape the notion of them somehow having come to life after centuries of nothingness, because it feels as though they are truly watching him where he stands, still dripping from the rain. Finally, deciding he will be unable to stand such scrutiny for much longer, his eyes seek out the doors again and he considers the option briefly before discarding it, turning around so that he has his back on them once more and is given a complete view of the empty plaza up front. Then, after a bit of careful consideration, he pulls his hood back up before stepping back out into the rain.

He crosses the plaza and once he has done so, he pauses in his stride and turns halfway, once again experiencing the heavy feeling of eyes resting upon him.

The gates are open now – one of them, at any rate, has been pushed somewhat open – and there is a priest standing there, looking towards him uncertainly where he remains rooted, staring back with a perfectly neutral expression. Then, seemingly having come to a decision, the priest raises his hand and makes a small gesture, seemingly ushering him closer. He remains where he is though, once again weighing his options before finally coming to a decision, tearing his eyes from the figure over in that doorway and taking a step aside, followed by another, followed by yet another. He isn't running away – not by any means – but he leaves and he does so swiftly, intent on doing so before he changes his mind again.

Eventually, he ends up upon a doorstep which is only partially covered by the roof above. Then, with some degree of triumph, he finds that there is a hollow space beneath the staircase, and with a few agile movements, he is soon down there occupying that very space. Slightly cramped or not, it's nothing he can't handle, and deciding he might as well rest for a few hours before continuing, he closes his eyes and curls up, already dozing off as the sound of raindrops lulls him to sleep. Some part of him berates him for doing so almost out in the open at the very heart of a human settlement and in wet clothes to the boot, but he disregards it, reasoning that it probably wouldn't manage to kill him off anyhow.

**- o0o -**

He is dreaming and he knows it, as he opens his eyes and finds himself in what seems to be a dimly lit cave.

It is a vaguely familiar type of scenery.

"_Nightmares?"_

He directs his eyes towards the one who has spoken – his long-haired companion – who does not look up at him, opting to put another piece of wood onto the small campfire in their midst.

"_You could say that,"_ he eventually yields, fingertips rubbing against his aching forehead. _"What time is it?"_

The other makes a slight sound of disapproval before stoking the campfire with yet another piece of wood. _"Does it matter?"_

"_It matters to me,"_ Allen retorts, shifting into a more comfortable position.

The crackling fire draws his eyes towards it, but he shifts them towards his strangely silent companion instead. _"It's neither late nor early,"_ the other responds after a while, putting another piece of wood into the fire. _"I took the liberty to set up a barrier…"_

"_A barrier?"_

His eyes scan the cave, as if he is somehow expecting to see it. _"We're in the desert right now, aren't we?"_

"_That's right,"_ the other responds, pulling out a vaguely familiar old tome.

Vague memories of having crash-landed in the middle of a sandstorm slowly resurface.

"_You dropped right after we arrived,"_ the other responds, answering the unasked question. _"It was a hassle to drag you all the way over here…"_

"_And where is here?"_

Amber-coloured eyes look up at him briefly before once again turning their attention towards the book. _"Once, I hid out in this area. Still, it looks like I was a little off when I channelled the coordinates to you…"_

His head snaps open suddenly, eyes wide. _"Channelled?"_

"_You don't remember?"_ The other levels him with a look of seeming amusement. _"Well, I guess it's really no wonder, all things considered…"_

A sudden realisation comes over him. _"Y-you messed around with my memories,"_ he hisses, halfway to his feet while the other just shrugs mildly in response, slamming the book shut and putting it aside.

"_I only did it so that I could throw them off our tail, seeing that our pursuers are swarming the places you've visited, since at least the Earl should know that you can't open gates to areas you've never been," _the other responds, barely suppressing a yawn. _"But you don't need to worry; I didn't snoop around and I didn't take anything away…"_

"_Then what __**did**__ you do?"_

The other rises to his feet, adjusting his cape all in one fluid motion. _"Simply put, I put one of my own memories into you, in order to get us to this place,"_ he says, covering up a yawn with his hand. _"One could say that I fooled your brain into thinking you'd been here before…"_

"_In other words…"_ Allen begins, rising fully to his feet this time around, experiencing another onslaught of headache as he does. _"It's your fault I feel like shit."_

"_If you want to put the blame on me, it's fine,"_ the other responds, rolling his shoulders and stretching his limbs. _"You'll be fine in no time at all… well, relatively."_

Somehow, he finds himself doubting it. Somehow, he found himself doubting a whole lot of things.

"_Don't worry, Allen. You've still got chances to set things right."_

Seemingly having read his mind, the other looks up from his book where he sits cross-legged by the campfire, back leaning against the cave wall behind him. It is a momentary glance, but Allen still feels like he can read a whole lot out of it. Weariness, hidden beneath a layer of wry amusement, meets his eye, and momentarily he wonders if it is himself that he sees being reflected back at him, mirrored in the other's eyes.

"_You have the power to turn the tide of this war, but whom and what to support is entirely up to you…"_

He retains his silence, all while the other continues speaking.

"_You can't be forced and you mustn't be swayed to support either side…"_

Mustn't be swayed by either side…

"_If you must fight, then fight for what you can actually believe in…"_

Fight…

"_But you must live, because without you, everything is lost…"_

Live…

"_You, who still have a choice…"_

What choice?

"_You, who were born a destroyer…"_

A destroyer of time…

"_I've been running out of time since a long time ago…"_

One destroyed by time…

"_No, my time already ran out long before we even crossed paths…"_

Long before…

"_I cannot rewrite my own past and change the future which has yet to come…"_

It comes at a costly price…

"_But I can change yours…"_

**- o0o -**

A haunted face in a broken mirror, ever familiar…

Echoes…

**- o0o -**

"_No matter what takes place, the world strives to remain in balance… and it'll do whatever it takes to remain that way…"_

**- o0o -**

"_Every action brings about a reaction, and it spreads like rings upon the water's surface…"_

**- o0o -**

"_My arrival in this world caused an imbalance, one which the world is working to accommodate…"_

**- o0o -**

"_It was right after Edo, wasn't it – that you got really ill?"_

**- o0o -**

"_To be crude, this world doesn't need two of us, so you – who were already weakened after the fight – got hit the worst by the waves caused by me entering this world, and you deteriorated quickly, forcing me to track you down quickly and to use my power to halt the process…"_

**- o0o -**

A flickering image of what once was, of what once would have been…

"_Do you miss them – your days as an exorcist?"_

He looks up, and finds himself standing on a hillside next to his companion, overlooking a desolate landscape. _"I suppose… then again, I suppose not."_

The other looks towards him, seemingly curious.

"_I miss the people… and I miss helping people… but I…"_

The other turns his eyes back towards the landscape. _"Having met your prophesised enemy, you found that you could no longer hate him. Having been abandoned by your friends at said enemy's mercy, you found that you could no longer trust in the values you had been taught; the value of friendship, of fighting for what's 'right'…"_

He looks up, eyes narrowing slightly. _"Don't put words in my mouth. I'm not the same as you."_

The other looks to him, motioning him to continue and he does, albeit slightly unwillingly.

"_I started doubting before Edo."_

"_Ah… Suman Dark, was it?"_ the other says, his eyes once again surveying the landscape. _"Just like any other weapon, Innocence is a two-edged sword; it may allow you to cut down your supposed enemies, but it also cuts into your lifespan, since human bodies were not built to handle it. It's like a candle burning at both ends; it drains your reserves, shortening your lifespan."_

"_I know,"_ Allen whispers, because he does know and he knows it very well.

"_You already know what became of my world,"_ the other says and he nods slightly. _"Admittedly, it all comes down to your decision in the end, but here's some friendly advice…"_

Friendly advice?

He doesn't remember.

**- o0o -**

"_What are you doing?"_

He is back in a cave again, looking down at his companion where he sits, armed with needle and thread.

"_I'm working on my new stage persona,"_ the other quips, and he kicks up an eyebrow in response.

"_Stage persona?"_ he echoes.

"_Obviously." _The other smiles at him._ "For the sake of dramatic impact."_

He snorts. _"I don't want to know."_

**- o0o -**

Red; beautiful red hair along with a white mask which stood in stark contrast to it…

A splash of colour within his otherwise colourless world…

**- o0o -**

"_How do I look?"_

"_Red? Red hair? Why the red hair?"_

"_Who knows? A way of paying homage to Cross, perhaps?"_

"_I thought you hated that guy…"_

"_I was never able to meet the one that was your master, so no. Besides, I've always liked the colour of red."_

"_Words uttered by a former redhead…"_

"_Well… you know… Besides, even if red certainly stands out on a crowd in most places, it's still less inconspicuous than stark white for a person your age. Then again, together, I guess we stand out even more… which in this case works to our advantage…"_

"_Explain."_

"_Which part?"_

"_Why being conspicuous works to our advantage, seeing that we're still hunted not only by the Earl and the Order, but also by…?"_

Static.

"_What do you mean by that? Why is this a good thing in your book?"_

"_By being conspicuous – by stepping out in the open, however briefly – we make ourselves targets, and the odds are that at least one – if not all the fractions – will attempt to catch us, in which case the other fractions will appear to hinder their operation."_

"_You seek to pit the different sides against each other?"_

"_Two are already fighting. If anything, making those fractions aware of-…"_

Static.

"…_Would work in our advantage, since it would instil doubts within the Order and split the attention of the Noah between him and us. Also, it'd be a great opportunity for you to show where you stand in all of this…"_

He snorts in disbelief._ "At first glance, it seems crazy, but apparently, you've thought about this."_

The other laughs. _"Obviously. Someone's got to be the brain of this whole operation."_

The other seems carefree, harbouring a devil-may-care attitude, but beneath it, there is always an underlying tone of seriousness.

"_That wasn't intended as an insult, you know? The way you are now, you're still pure, honest and trustworthy… lacking in ulterior motives… Call it intuition if you like; I just know it. Your time with the Order might've skewered your perspective a bit, but your eyes right now are wide open. There is no point in you double-crossing me, and even if there was, it'd still take a lot for you to stab me in the back. I mean, maybe you'd do it if I were about to kill one of your former comrades, but other than that… I don't really see it."_

The other's belief in him, seemingly an unwavering force…

He can't understand it.

"_How can you be so sure of that?"_

More static…

"_You sound like a man with a death __wish." _His own words, being reflected back at him from unseen walls…

Another response, lost in the static…

Laughter…

"_You're plotting something again, aren't you?"_ He hears himself speaking…

The other lets out an amused snort. _"Hoh? How can you tell?"_

He winces slightly; his head is feeling all weird again. _"You're not exactly being very inconspicuous about it…"_

His vision swims momentarily, and there's a buzzing noise in his head. Still, he can overhear the other's response.

"_I am plotting – that much is blindingly obvious – but I am plotting for your own good."_

"_Yes," _he says. _"But you do know what they say about good intentions…"_

"_Yeah, yeah," _the other brushes him off with a careless gesture._ "Been there, done that, signed the guestbook. Believe it or not, but I have experience... based on trial and error, but experience nonetheless."_

"_Then tell me…" _He hears himself respond, painstakingly patient but rapidly reaching the point of its absolute exhaustion._ "How am I supposed to get to these people? It isn't like we can just waltz right into the-…" _he pauses momentarily, finally getting a look at the other's face, which leaves him in disbelief. _"You're thinking it, aren't you?"_

The other just shrugs, feigning innocence. "_If I'm thinking about waltzing right into the Order to have the former retrieved? No. Honestly, do I look like a kidnapper to you?"_

His answer is short and immediate, delivered without the least bit of hesitance. _"Yes."_

The other's expression shifts into a mildly offended one, though it is still way more playful than offended. _"Hey, I was the one who said that you needed to earn their trust and loyalty, and you don't make people trust you by abducting them… not normally at any rate."_

He says nothing.

"_I won't betray you," _the other promises._ "I can't betray you, because that would be the same as betraying myself. But I'll only last for so long, and when that time comes…"_

When that time comes…

He sighs, resigned._ "I shouldn't be on my own, right?"_

"_Those lone and powerful often succumb to madness in the end," _the other says, his tone wistful. _"Admittedly, great power can cause isolation and alienation, but loneliness is what breaks them."_

"_I won't betray you…"_ the other goes on to promise, but Allen doesn't believe in them; not anymore, and never again, as the words are but an empty promise of a broken man, wistful and very much aware of the end which awaits him.

He closes his eyes.

"_Liar…"_

**- o0o -**

He wakes up feeling disoriented – in a bed which is entirely unfamiliar to him even as he racks through all the memories within him – to the utterly concerned gaze of a glasses-wearing nun. She speaks, but it is all in French and his brain is unable to process it, so he screws his eyes back shut and turns his head onto the side, facing away from her. She continues speaking, and then suddenly, some words seem familiar to him, and he only faintly realises that they are in Latin, and it puzzles him, seeing that he has no memory of ever having known Latin.

He is even more puzzled when he hears himself answering back in Latin than he is to learn that he has been unconscious for at least a day and a half, and that he is at an orphanage, having been found by one of the orphans. He is puzzled, but doesn't think much of it, and when the nun – the presumed prioress; the seeming Mother Superior – asks him who he is, he answers her with a surprising amount of honesty, revealing that he is an independent fifteen-year-old making his living as a street performer after leaving the circus. She asks for his name, but he doesn't answer, allowing his breathing to even out to give more credit to the illusion that he has gone back asleep. Before long, he does, allowing the rest of the world to fade away, though he finds that it still lingers, its never-ending flurry of sounds steadily seeping into his ears and invading his dreams.

**- o0o -**

The next time he floats back into a state of reasonable awareness, it is to the sound of a conversation taking place right outside the room he is lying in, just outside the door, with its two participants – one of whom is the Prioress – seemingly discussing whether or not they should call for a doctor to check him out. Having heard those words, Allen is already out of bed and halfway to the window, where his legs suddenly fold beneath him, and its only ingrained reflexes that prevent him from making a rather disgraceful face plant on the floor, where he instead manages to ease his own landing somewhat before falling over onto his side, curling up in a foetal position as the full force of his headache catches up with him, nearly causing him to black out then and there. Still, somewhere in his mind, he reasons that he must have caused some sort of ruckus, because the next thing he knows, the door is thrown open, revealing what seems to be the Prioress along with another nun, and in the one that comes after that, the Prioress is kneeling beside him with the back of her hand resting against his cheek, calling for the other nun to go fetch a doctor, but he grabs hold of her wrist in a firm but not too firm grip, looking straight at her even though he feels like his vision is going to cancel out at any minute. "No doctors," he whispers, and he isn't even sure which language he is using anymore. "I'm fine. No doctors."

His grip on the Prioress' wrist gradually slackens before he relinquishes it completely, but she is still there by his side, looking down at him concernedly. "Are you sure?" she finally asks, in English this time around, and he gives her a momentary nod before once again blacking out.

**- o0o -**

When he wakes up a third time, he is surprised by the fact that she apparently decided to heed his request. He also discovers a kid in the middle of stealing his throwing knives, and all in all, the latter should not surprise him, but it does, and he grabs the kid in a headlock, leaving him with a lapful of a struggling boy. "For a thief, you're an amateur," Allen notes with a hint of amusement, and the boy's struggles temporarily cease as brown eyes look up at him with seeming curiosity, one which he returns. He is not angry, just surprised, and with the struggling having ceased, he loosens his grip gradually before letting go altogether.

"For a sick guy, you sure seem healthy," the boy retorts, in English, and there is a challenge in the other's tone.

_Fair enough_, Allen supposes, retrieving the knives from the other's possession.

"I feel better," he responds, in English, because he does, really. Then again, everything is comparative to other things. "Still, care to tell me what you'd be needing my knives for?"

**- o0o -**

The boy's name is Timothy, or rather, Timothy Hearst after the name of the orphanage, which is apparently the Hearst Orphan Asylum, a three-storey flat-roofed building made out of brick, a building of much hope but dire future prospects due to a lack of resources and a steadily approaching date of financial ruin.

Hearing all this, Allen feels that he understands at least part of the reason behind the lines of worry edged into the visage of the Prioress, who despite her own situation and their situation as an establishment operating with meagre resources decided to take in and care for a random stranger with little or nothing to give in return. It was either selfless or foolish, or both for that matter, and it was a behavioural pattern and a view of the world which generally caused things to end badly for the person harbouring them, because no one could be that bloody good and selfless and possibly get away with it unscathed.

Timothy – seemingly possessing a good eye for quality – obviously has his motives for trying to steal Allen's knives, and Allen finds himself understanding them, yes, but he is still very much unwilling to part with his belongings if he can prevent it. Even so, Allen considers himself a person who actually pays his own debts – unlike certain redheaded generals – and thus, he and Timothy eventually reach an understanding, entailing that Allen will repay the Prioress' kindness in actual currency once he is considered fit enough to be let back out into the real world.

However, unbeknownst to them both, the real world is already getting ready to come and get them.

**- o0o -**

It is late in the evening – nearing midnight – one day when a muffled sound snaps him from a shallow sleep and back into a state of acute awareness. Still, he remains where he is, curled up and on his side, but his eyes open a fraction and then fully, scanning the area not only with his eyes but also with his other senses, trying to discern the cause of that earlier sound. For a brief moment, he suspects akuma, but since his eye isn't reacting to anything, he isn't too sure about it. Besides, if life has taught him anything, people themselves can at times be just as dangerous as akuma, if not even more dangerous, as one knows to be wary of the danger that is right up front, but one often looks past the ones that aren't.

Admittedly, akuma could disguise themselves either through a given ability or through wearing a human's skin, but they could not deceive his eyes as he – due to the curse bestowed upon him by Mana – would always see them for what they were rather than for what they pretended to be. However, even his eyes – however trained they had been to spot signs of human deceit – are not foolproof by any means, as there are still things capable of escaping his notice, and when it all comes down to it, those small things could very well be mean the difference between life and death not only for him but also for the people in his surroundings.

His surroundings…

There is a sudden twinge of worry for the Brat – Timothy, that is – as well as for the other children and the Prioress, and he finally stirs, sitting up slowly and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, pausing briefly to make sure that he is steady before getting to his feet. Once standing, he turns his head slightly to the side, listening.

The sound is there again, though it is so faint he can barely catch it.

Soundlessly, he walks up to the door, but steps slightly to the side just before reaching it, his hand reaching for the doorknob as he keeps on listening for sounds that seem to be in any way unusual, keeping his senses alert and his eyes wide open.

Steps – that's what they are, though the person they belong to are by no means as skilful at concealing them as he is, as he can clearly hear them approaching now, seemingly headed towards the door leading to the room he is currently occupying – the very same as the one he is standing right next to on the other side.

For a brief moment, he contemplates heading back to bed and feigning sleep in case the person on the outside truly intends to enter, but he shrugs it off, reasoning that if said individual – a grownup, seeing that such heavy footsteps could by no means have belonged to a child – probably wouldn't enter the room at such a late hour unless they had shadier motives in mind for doing so. Besides, it sure as Hell wasn't the Prioress – Allen knows the sound of her footsteps, having memorised them early on, and beyond that, there is the matter of presence; a part of him knows the presence of the person who is standing outside the door, but he finds himself unable to pin it to any specific individual.

Thus, keeping that in mind, he holds his breath and pulls out one of his trusted knives, keeping it ready, since it could possibly come in handy. What he said to those exorcists back at the circus – to Lenalee and the others – hadn't been a lie; the fairly regular attempts on his life – more often than not courtesy of fellow performers – were a great part of the reason for his tendency of skipping town and company at regular intervals, since he would rather not sleep with one eye open any more than he already is, seeing that such paranoia generally has a quite negative impact on the quality of sleep in general. Still, he knows not to be hasty. After all, in the offhand case that the person on the other side of the door isn't actually out to kill him in his sleep, it really wouldn't do to go right ahead and stab them before being fully aware of their intentions, ensuring that he would have time to knock them out with the handle instead of stabbing them outright, since he would rather not have any more blood on his hands if he could possibly avoid it.

He is out in unfamiliar territory, and he knows that; he is in a situation where he has no earlier reference points to compare it to, and as such, there is no readily formulated plan to put into action beyond that of common sense and regular improvisation.

Then, there is a hand on the doorknob on the other side, and he withdraws slightly, cloaking himself in shadows, hoping he will not be spotted immediately, and that this person – be they friend or foe – will step into the room and thus leave an escape route open for him.

It feels like forever, and then, he hears how the doorknob turns. There is a slight mumble – a soft curse – and he hears that it is a female voice, and he vaguely recognises the voice as one belonging to one of the nuns working at the orphanage; the one with cold eyes and little compassion.

The knob turns fully, and he silently steels himself for what is seemingly about to come, but then, just as the door clicks open and opens ever so slightly, there is a loud knocking noise on what he can only presume to be the front door, following which there is another soft curse – louder this time around – followed by the sound of the footsteps retreating and seemingly heading to answer it. Seeing an opportunity, he pushes the door slightly more open, already cringing at the expected screech of it, though he is relieved when it never comes and the door opens almost soundlessly without a glitch.

The nun has her back to him as she heads up to the door, and she has only just reached it when Allen takes his opportunity to sneak out of the room, pulling the door back closed behind him and leaving it only slightly open before he moves soundlessly into the room which is almost right across from it, taking the open door as a clear invitation and ending up in what seems to be a kitchen, and there he crouches down behind a table, biding his time while waiting for the situation to unfold so that he can figure out what type of situation he could possibly be dealing with.

The nun answers the door with a mildly irritated huff, and he can only imagine the gesture which accompanies it. "It's about damn time," she says, or at least that's what Allen translates her words to, and he frowns slightly. "I called about this matter two days ago."

This matter?

Another voice spoke up, low but gruff – a male's voice. "Where's the boy?"

The boy?

He goes cold hearing it, and when a sudden twinge of pain runs through him before focusing in the area surrounding his left eye, he goes even colder. An akuma or not, he should have little to fear, but the dread that fills him up at that very moment is undeniable, and so strong that it nearly robs him of his ability to think clearly, no doubt amplified by his Innocence suddenly acting up on him, eager to destroy.

"This way," the nun says, and Allen grits his teeth.

If the akuma is after a boy, Allen can think of only two possibilities. One is obviously him, and he finds himself hoping it is, clearly dreading the alternative, seeing that the other one is Timothy, though the latter – while seemingly possessing some degree of awareness of his own ability – is largely unaware of the Innocence he possesses, as well as the dangers that comes with it. Timothy is a new variable – an unknown – in his world, lacking previous reference points, but Allen has already become attached to him, at least to the degree that he will not see the other dragged into the unholy war he reads in the other's future. He supposes it is a remnant of the saving-people complex he once possessed, but he also supposes it is sheer common sense; children should not be soldiers, fighting other people's wars.

Then, there is a hiss in the darkness and he looks up, momentarily startled. "He's not here, woman!" the voice says, an obvious hint of danger in his voice. "You lie!"

"Calm yourself," the nun hisses back. "He is here; I know he is. He has not left this house."

There is a mild growl answering her, and then, there seems to be a slight shift in their surroundings. "Raise the barrier," the akuma says, seemingly addressing someone else, and this time around, Allen feels his blood freeze in his veins.

A wave of panic rises in him as he feels the telling shift in his surroundings of a barrier being established. A barrier? Why are they after…?

An image of a monocle-wearing gentleman enters his mind, and his eyes grow wide.

"_You seem a bit familiar. Have we met before?"_

He recalls them – amber-coloured eyes – watching him hungrily.

"_This melody… Do you recognise it?"_

He feels sick and dizzy again. He knows that he needs to leave, but he knows that if he does, the others will die, but if he doesn't…

**- o0o -**

"_You have the power to turn the tide of this war, but whom and what to support is entirely up to you…"_

**- o0o -**

The voice is there again, echoing within him. The words are familiar and somewhat admonishing, but overall well-meaning.

**- o0o -**

"_Still… No matter what takes place, the world strives to remain in balance… and…"_

**- o0o -**

"_Every action brings about a reaction, and it spreads like rings upon the water's surface…"_

**- o0o -**

Every action brings about a reaction…

He grits his teeth once more, steeling himself as he summons his Innocence.

What has been done has been done, and he cannot undo the past. Every action brings about a reaction, and he is left to counter them one after the other.

"_Don't stop walking,"_ he inwardly reminds himself. _"Don't stop…"_

He has to keep on going.

**- o0o -**


	3. Calling

_This might be the end, or rather; it will be the end unless there is a greater show of interest and a demand for more. If not, then besides a few possible future snapshots, this will probably be the last chapter, so enjoy!_

**- o0o -**

**III – Calling – III**

**- o0o -**

He really isn't in any shape to fight; he really isn't in the shape to do anything physically strenuous at all, but he does so anyway and he is already feeling the strain of it. Using his Innocence – only recently having evolved from its previously rather primitive state – depletes him more quickly now, both due to the fact that his body has yet to fully adjust to it, as well as due the fact that he had seemingly drained both his physical and mental resources these last couple of weeks. He isn't ill per se – or rather, he wasn't up until the point when he learnt that he was being targeted. His physical ailment is one of exhaustion; it is his mental state that causes him to feel so ill. However, regardless of the reason behind it all, he is still left in a situation in which he would rather not be. Truly…

Said position is that of being shoved against a wall and pinned there by the force of a hand clamped around his throat, merciless fingers wrapped tightly around it, efficiently cutting off his flow of air, but he gasps for it regardless and the grip eases up just the tiniest bit, allowing him to gain at least a bit of oxygen to his brain before the grip tightens once more as the akuma – _a Level-Three; why is it a Level-Three?_ – leans closer, seemingly to study him more closely before disposing of him.

Truly, it is a pathetic state to be in.

He has never liked being pathetic.

The Level-Three looks at him – devoid of its earlier, far more humanoid appearance – and he stares right back at it with a silent challenge in his eyes even though he should by all means focus more on once again invoking own weapon to defend himself, as the akuma before him – a Level-Three or not – would have been no match for it, had he been able to wield it properly.

Then, there is the sound of running footsteps, and then a voice – the shrill voice of a child – rings out in his surroundings, restoring a distorted and blurry world to a seeming state of normalcy and clarity. "Let him go, you bastard!"

Timothy is standing there – in the doorway – small but undeniably fierce where he stands; holding one of Allen's previously dropped knives. Such recklessness, he sees it so clearly then, and he finds that he is reminded of himself, of how he used to be, and to some extent probably still is. The child – so young; too young – is undeniably reckless, not to mention foolish; he is walking straight to his own death, thinking that supernatural weapons fuelled by human souls can be exterminated with simple human means like the swipe of a sharpened blade.

Allen knows he should have expected such behaviour; he knows he should have discouraged it from the very start. Timothy Hearst is a new variable – an unknown – but no matter what he is and who he is, he is too young to die; far too young. The brat advances, still holding onto the knife, and somehow, Allen finds himself directing his eyes away from his own situation to focus more on Timothy, silver-grey eyes widening as he catches sight of that nun – the broker who sold him out – standing there with a gun barrel directed towards the head of a seemingly unknowing Timothy Hearst.

It's all too much; it feels as though the walls are closing in on him. He can't breathe.

Time – broken once but mended – means little to him, yet at the same time, it means everything to him. It slows down, so much that it seemingly comes to a stop as a shot rings out followed by another, followed by yet another, and then it rushes forward again.

He is once again wearing his mask and is crouching on the floor with a startled Timothy pressed up against his front, both of them surrounded by the cloak of his Innocence. The corrupted nun is on the floor, but she is knocked unconscious rather than dead, but she has already dealt them enough damage, as there is not only one but two bullets buried in Allen's right shoulder, creating profusely bleeding holes that saps not only his strength but also causes waves of pain and nausea, both of which nearly manage to shatter his concentration as he is breathless and gasping.

The Level-Three is still there, seemingly amused about all the things that have taken place, though it looks just about ready to stop playing and to start dealing the final blow, but Allen – shifting his eyes ever so slightly beneath the mask, watching its every movement – speaks up right as it is in the midst of its attack, and it freezes up just a fraction of a second later, staring at him in seeming disbelief.

Allen is no longer himself – he no longer perceives himself as such anyway – as he releases his grip on Timothy who stumbles backward, and he straightens up even though he is bleeding profusely all over both his own clothes and over the cloak, the red liquid forming a great contrast to its ethereal shimmer. He sways slightly, but only momentarily before straightening up once more, and before he knows it, he has taken a step towards the akuma, reaching out with his right hand rather than his left one, even though his shoulder pains him greatly as he does so. He advances another step, and suddenly, his fingers are brushing against the side of its face. _"Don't,"_ he hears himself say, and the voice is his own, but not really, and he watches how the akuma – the Level-Three which has up until that point made a few very keen attempts on his life – bows before him with a mixture of fear and reverence.

"Lord Noah," it says, and that's really all that is needed to snap him out of it, and as more of a reflex than as a result of any conscious decision, he slices it cleanly in half with his claw and it explodes, but he barely even feels the force of it as he remains rooted where he stands for several seconds. He barely notices Timothy calling his name, and he has only just registered the mixture of outright fear and concern in the other's voice before he crumbles to the floor in an immediate blackout.

**- o0o -**

There are voices calling him. One is shrill and urgent; panicked. The other is seemingly calm, yet undeniably concerned, but unlike the first one – which is an outer one – the second one is an inner one.

Then, there is a third voice. It is concerned, like the second voice, but it is also mildly admonishing. He knows the voice, and a part of him dreads it while another is undeniably curious about it. "Foolish child," it calls him. "So reckless…"

There are gloved fingertips stroking his heated brow, and he feels himself frown mildly in response to the touch. "So reckless…"

The first voice is back again, shouting. It's Timothy, he realises, as he hears a cry of distress followed by the sound of something – presumably a body – being slammed into a wall.

He cracks an eye open, finding himself lying on the side, blearily surveying his surroundings.

Then, there is a slight gasp, and he tries to get up. He barely manages to raise himself from the floor into a halfway seated position, and in doing so, he finds himself overlooking a scene consisting of Timothy sprawled out upon the floor with a man's foot on his lower back and a man's cane – reminiscent of a blade – hovering dangerously close to the base of Timothy's neck.

"Let him go," Allen finds himself saying, and once again, his voice sounds strange. It is both an order and a request, but he is by no means begging for anything.

The tip of the cane remains where it is, but the gentleman holding it turns his head, and familiar amber-coloured eyes come to rest on him. "Lie back down, child," the gentleman says, and his voice is harder now but is still very much admonishing.

"Let him go first," Allen responds, staggering to his feet. He feels lightheaded and disoriented as he does so, and he is faintly aware of the blood which is still leaking out of him – the flow seems a bit more sluggish now, and in regards to pain, he is no longer feeling it, which is a really bad sign altogether.

The gentleman finally withdraws the tip of the cane from Timothy's neck, straightening up ever so slightly. "At this rate…"

**- o0o -**

He does not know how much time has passed since when the events at the orphanage, but he when he is once again capable of reasonable and coherent thought, he is in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, and the time between the events and him waking up in such a place is a confused flurry of impressions intermingling with fragments of dreams both old and recent.

The wound has been treated, and the bandages covering the area around his shoulder are still very much fresh from the feeling of them, and there is a smaller bandage wrapped around the crook of his right arm, beneath which he can feel the remnants of a small puncture wound. Blood – he realises he has been given blood, and a fair amount of it as well if his own perception of the situation can be trusted, seeing that he is no longer dreadfully lightheaded; just tired.

Still, tired or not, his natural restlessness prevents him from staying where he is, and he sits up in bed and shortly afterwards swings his legs over the edge of it. The clothes are different as well – they are new, high quality and by all means far too fancy to be any of his own – but he only registers them as an afterthought as he walks up to the room's window, finding himself overlooking a garden of equal fancy, leading him to deduce that he had ended up in some sizeable mansion, courtesy of the odd gentleman no doubt.

But why?

What happened?

He is not an exorcist, not in name, but in practice he wields the very same weapon as he did back when he was on. He is still an accommodator of Innocence, but one so far largely uninvolved with the Order and its supposed Holy War. Still, involved or not, it should have made no greater difference to the Earl himself, seeing that the Earl is supposedly waging war against not only the Order but also against humanity itself. So, why would he…?

Then, it strikes him.

The music – the Earl had heard him play. The Earl had heard him play – or at least seen his reaction to _that_ melody - and had apparently drawn certain conclusions from what he had heard, placing Allen – an accommodator of Innocence or not – into an entirely different category than others.

Still, judging from the man's previous actions, there had still been some degree of uncertainty in regards to it all, but now…

The akuma, Allen realises. He had spoken to it – no, he had ordered it to stop and it had obeyed him, leaving little doubt as to what he had just done.

The Earl hadn't been meant to find out; not this early in the game…

Allen startles as there is a sudden knock on the door, and, temporarily overcome by a sudden desperate urge to get the Hell out of it all, he snatches a lamp from a nearby desk and hurls it at the window with the feeble hopes of breaking it. However, it appears as though this course of action has already been foreseen, as he can only watch in morbid fascination as the lamp bounces against it as the image distorts for a brief second before once again clearing up, a telltale sign of it – and probably the entire room and possibly even the entire mansion – being surrounded by an unseen barrier, likely put in place to prevent an improvised escape.

Still, bouncing harmlessly off the barrier or not, the lamp still impacts on the floor and breaks, giving rise to a small crash which he can by all means be sure will reach the ears of his keeper, and as expected, the door swings open to reveal the Earl, though the man is still distinctly lacking in his more typical appearance; he looks human now – much like a nobleman of some sort, with a top hat, fancy clothes and a monocle – but the similarities between the man and the other – the living caricature – are still there somehow, though he is not entirely sure how.

For several seconds, there is silence. They look at each other, or rather, the Earl looks at him and Allen keeps a keen eye on the other's movements, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then, the former sighs, entering the room and pushing the door back shut behind him. "As rowdy as ever, I see."

Allen's eyes narrow even further, and he retains his silence.

"You do not need to be afraid, Allen."

He stiffens slightly. The words strike a chord in him, making him experience yet another feeling of déjà vu even though the context is supposedly a different one, seeing that he has no memory whatsoever of ever having been in such a situation before. Then, it strikes him, and another torrent of memories comes flowing back into him.

**- o0o -**

_"To still be able to move in your state, I am quite impressed…"_

**- o0o -**

_"Your spiritual power astonishes me…"_

**- o0o -**

_"There is no other being which is as unevenly and deeply connected with the Innocence as you are, Allen…"_

**- o0o -**

He knows there is nothing on his face, but he still has the vivid impression of hands holding it in place, just as vividly as he remembers the sudden urge to spit at the one holding it there.

**- o0o -**

_"You've grown up to become a beautiful exorcist."_

**- o0o -**

_"You do not need to be afraid…"_

**- o0o -**

"_You're just becoming one with me."_

**- o0o -**

The words are virtually the same, but the context is entirely different. The only common variable is that he is there and that he is being cornered, and he doesn't like it one bit. Still, differences aside, he feels very much like he felt back then, and before he knows what he is doing, those very same words – words spoken in a rare instance of anger at having been forced to listen to something so preposterous – exit his mouth as he shifts his position into one where he is ready to both attack and defend at a moment's notice. "I refuse."

However, unlike That Thing, the Earl doesn't laugh and tell him that he is a fool with no right to refuse. Instead, the man looks decidedly puzzled at his response. "What do you refuse, child?"

The puzzled question throws him off for a second, and he averts his eyes even though he should by all means be keeping an eye on the man just in case. "I won't join you," he finally says, keeping his eyes averted. "On this crusade of yours."

There is a slight bit of movement out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't care. He tightens his hands into fists, trying to prevent them from shaking. "Not as a pawn…" he says, though his voice is a barely audible whisper. "Not to anyone…"

There is a slight rustle of fabric, and before he knows it, he is pulled up against the other's front and there is a hand on the back of his head, pressing it against the other's shoulder. For a brief moment, he is stunned – completely taken by surprise – but then, as the situation and his own position dawn upon him, he tries to pull away, only to find himself held more tightly.

It takes a while, but then – realising the futility of struggling – the tension slowly drains from his muscles. Resigned, he slumps against the other's front, silently cursing the strangely calming effect the scent of the other's clothing seems to have on him. All in all, with such a large part of his other life having been spent fighting the man while risking life and limb, it should have had the exact opposite effect on him; it should not have calmed him. It should rather have reminded him of the danger he was obviously in as he was no longer even at an arm's length from a man he once considered his greatest nemesis.

Still, perhaps it is just that – that strange feeling of familiarity – which lulls him into a false sense of security even though he knows just who has him trapped in their embrace. Still…

They're similar, he realises blearily as the hand on the back of his head starts stroking his hair with surprising tenderness. Mana and the Earl, the both of them mad and by all means far too attached to a past which would never return in any other shape than to haunt them in their nightmares.

"I'm not him," he whispers, his words muffled by the thick fabric of the other's coat.

The hand in his hair stills briefly. "Such a strange child…" The man sounds thoughtful. "Such a strange child you are…"

**- o0o -**

He opens his eyes to another place, to another day, to the concerned visages of a couple of Parisians, gently enquiring whether or not he is in any need of assistance – that is to say, whether they should call for a doctor, or the police, or possibly even both. He is momentarily puzzled by these enquiries, but then, after he is helped up into a seated position on the park bench he has seemingly been laid out on, he is struck by the telltale remnants of some drug that has still not left his systems altogether, and there are renewed enquiries as to whether or not to call for some sort of medical assistance.

Eventually, and a bit unnerved by their seeming persistence in making sure he is alright, he manages to convince said Parisians that he is anaemic, a condition which they seem to buy into immediately after having another look at his naturally pale features. Then, having had a closer look at his supposed medical condition and seemingly content at their own involvement, they disperse, leaving Allen alone on the bench to piece together what had possibly taken place between his last known memory and the present.

One of the first things he notices beyond the pain in his right shoulder and the lingering vertigo of a drug-induced haze is that he has somewhere along the way been gifted with a whole new frock coat – long and black and high-quality at that – which is no doubt on top of a bunch of clothes he had not owned previous to these events. There is also a pair of lace-up boots on his feet that he has no previous recollection of, leaving him to assume that his own image is now likely closer to that of a young man of gentle birth than that of a street performer, and he is not entirely sure as to how he feels about that, especially not since someone has oh-so-helpfully bound his right arm into a sling to keep it moderately immobile.

Then again, he supposes it explains the sudden bout of seeming concern for his wellbeing, seeing that such attire would likely place him as a possible offspring of someone rich and powerful rather than as a simple performer with little known pedigree to speak of…

The thought makes him snort and he shakes his head slightly, trying to dispel it from his own mind as he instead takes the time to notice the shoulder bag lying beneath the bench. He reaches for it and hauls it up beside him, and after a momentary peek at its general contents, he hauls it upwards and slings it onto his shoulder as he rises to his feet, his senses vaguely catching the retreating shadows of the hidden eyes that have obviously kept watch on him up until that point.

He realises that he has been let go, albeit only temporarily, as he can still feel eyes on him as he leaves the area, exiting the park he had at some point ended up in to instead enter the streets.

The direction of the wind has not changed, but there is a storm brewing somewhere; he can feel it, and instinctively, he knows he does not want to still be around once it hits. However, though he is already up and about and ready to take flight, there are still matters left for him to attend to…

**- o0o -**

An unknown number of hours later, storm clouds have drifted in and obscured the sun from view, and it is in that very landscape – dreary as it might seem – that he finds himself, standing outside a very familiar building with a thick envelope held between the index and middle finger of his left hand – once again adorned by a glove – looking thoughtfully at the building in front of him.

**- o0o -**

"_To be, or not to be: that is the question…"_

**- o0o -**

"_To be, or not to be…"_

**- o0o -**

The fate of an orphanage in the French capital should really be of no greater concern to him, considering the fact that he has so many greater things to deal with in mean time. However, a sometimes compulsive liar or not, when he gives his word, he keeps it, and he always pays his own debts eventually, for better or for worse.

Apparently, he is not the only one, or so he finds when he enters the city's railway station wearing his previous attire, finding a familiar brat sitting there, waiting for him while clutching the crumpled-up form of an empty envelope in his hand. For a couple of moments, neither says anything, staring at each other in silence. "Back then, I thought I would die," Timothy finally says. "Then, I thought you would die."

"I know," Allen responds, watching as brown eyes leave his own and slide down to look at his arm where it hangs limply in its sling.

The child frowns mildly. "You're hurt."

"I got shot," Allen responds, shrugging mildly and regretting it instantly as he is immediately reminded of the reason as to why he is no longer using it. "But as you can see, I'll live."

"Are you going to be okay?" The other's eyes once again seek out his own, seeking confirmation.

He nods once. "I'll be okay."

He can only hope.

"Don't you have places to be – people to bother?" he finally asks. "I've already fulfilled my end of the bargain."

"The bargain?" the brat echoes, frowning mildly.

"The Prioress took me in and took care of me," Allen clarifies, nodding in direction of the crumbled-up envelope. "In return, I took care of a problem of hers, like I promised you I would."

"You did," Timothy affirms, though there is a hint of disapproval crossing his features. "But that's not why I'm here."

"Why are you here then?" Allen asks, indulging him. Still, with things being the way they are, it is a question which needs to be asked.

The brat smiles mischievously at him.

After a mere moment of hesitation, he finds himself smiling right back at him before asking a question which would by all means prove fateful. "I'm heading eastward. Wanna tag along?"

**- o0o -**

It had been a surprisingly rash decision on his part, he knows that, but he also knows that there was little he could have done to avoid it. He knows it will probably be dangerous to bring Timothy along – even more so now that the Earl has his eyes on them both – but he also knows that whether he likes it or not, Timothy's fate as an accommodator of Innocence – however unfortunate – is ultimately tied to the war and to the fate of the world. Besides, even if he had refused to bring the brat along, the world would have come for the latter soon enough.

A new variable or not, Timothy is still a child and a reckless one at that. It is dangerous for him to be with Allen, but it would also have been dangerous to leave him behind. Even if the Earl now had his eyes on them both, there is also the fact that the Earl had – at Allen's request – ultimately spared the other's life, even though Allen would have been in no shape to do anything to stop him in case the man had decided to go through with it, if not before then after Allen himself had already blacked out from pain and blood loss.

The Earl…

He shudders inwardly, stricken by a feeling of foreboding.

**- o0o -**

Another place, another day, another time, another companion…

It is raining, and they are standing outside a familiar town somewhere in Germany, and Allen can't help but wonder if he had truly sought it out unconsciously or if the wretched thing called Fate had guided him there when he sees the barrier surrounding it, recalling the events of a past since long gone.

A hooded Timothy is standing next to him – dressed in a water-resistant coat – brown eyes alternating between Allen and the town inside of the barrier. "What is this place?"

Allen throws him an amused look but retains his silence. Instead, he holds his hands out for the other to take. Timothy eyes the hand with a lesser amount of distaste, clearly not liking the fact that he is being treated like a child, but he still slides his own hand into it, squeezing it slightly.

"Are you ready to find out?" Allen asks.

The other just shrugs mildly. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

**- o0o -**

"_I won't betray you…"_

**- o0o -**

"_I can't betray you, because that would be the same as betraying myself…"_

A promise, once made but broken…

"_But I'll only last for so long, and when that time comes…"_

His own words being reflected back at him, resigned. _"I shouldn't be on my own, right?"_

"_Those lone and powerful often succumb to madness in the end." _The other turns to him, wistful._ "Admittedly, great power can cause isolation and alienation, but loneliness is what breaks them in the end…"_

"_I won't betray you." _His other self, broken – wistful and very much aware of the fate which awaits him – makes empty promises, and he closes his eyes.

**- o0o -**

"_I know."_

**- o0o -**

Allen knows her very well, and remembers how he met her in that other future.

The context is slightly different, and the variables are also somewhat different from back then, but some things are still the same.

Her name is Miranda Lotto, and she thinks of herself as useless.

Believing she had no future, she wishes that tomorrow would never come.

Believing herself to be trapped in an ever repeating today, she starts thinking about killing herself. She is on her way to the apothecary to do something about the matter when she trips and drops her purse, sending numerous coins to be scattered all over the cobblestones. She is still picking them up when Allen and Timothy happen upon her, far more by accident than by anything else.

Time…

The comings and goings of the sun…

The waxing and waning of the moon…

The passing of seasons…

The ageing of man…

Time…

Distorted…

Disjointed…

Time…

Broken once, yet mended through fusing broken links back together in its chain, enforcing it…

He – his very existence – is proof of the distorted world – of disjointed time – sent back to set things right.

He crouches down before her and holds out his hand towards her with a smile. _"Ist alles in Ordnung, Fräulein?"_

She looks at him, seemingly confused for a brief moment, leaving him to wonder whether or not he had just mangled her native tongue before he realises that her confusion has other grounds altogether. _"Entschuldigung! Entschuldigung! Ich gehe jetzt we-…"_

"_Warum müssen Sie jetzt gehen? __Bleib noch hier ein Moment," _he responds, and she pauses momentarily and just looks at him, and he wonders for a moment whether or not his own message has made it across, seeing that he is very much unused to the language in question.

Then, suddenly, he finds himself on the cobblestones with a lapful of a hysterically sobbing Miranda Lotto who while sobbing relays her woeful situation in a barely distinguishable string of words all in a to him very much foreign language while clutching the thick fabric of his coat. Initially, he stiffens slightly in response to the sudden physical intrusion while he suppresses his flight reflex, but then he somewhat awkwardly wraps his arms around her all while she continues to cling to him, while Timothy on his end watches them both with a mixture of surprise, amusement and slight disbelief. "What the Hell did you say to her?"

Allen finds himself wishing he had a good answer to that.

**- o0o -**

Once a few initial misunderstandings have been dealt with, Miranda is told about the reason for her ever-repeating today, and with some additional help, the time loop is broken without additional interference. The Order has yet to learn about the strange phenomenon, and a couple of stray akuma aside, the Earl has not made any moves. Road Camelot is nowhere to be seen while the events take place, leaving Allen to wonder whether or not he should feel relieved.

However, there is a tinge of worry in him then too, as he realises this particular case – the one concerning Miranda Lotto and the Rewinding Town – was also the first one featuring the appearance of a member of the Noah Family, bringing their existence into a state of reasonable awareness for the Order beyond that of a chosen few. Now however, his interference had brought the case to a close before either got themselves involved, leaving the Order at a seeming disadvantage – the one of not knowing what was about to take place, with the Earl plotting his next major strike against it.

The Generals.

He knows what will take place, or at least what is very likely to take place, and though he is by no means powerless to do something about it, he is also very much aware of the both potential and actual consequences of any greater interference of his. The Earl, now having more than just an inkling about his true identity, had let him go once. If he would interfere, there was always the chance that the man would see things differently this time around, and would react accordingly.

Still, it was a tough decision to make and he knows that, just as he knows that he is headed down a dangerous path, and that he – at this rate – will bring others down with him. It troubles him to a certain extent, but he also knows that they will be in a great deal of danger anyhow, and that he will be able to protect them for as long as they are within his line of sight. Still, he also knows that it is not a one-way street; he had been told he should not be alone, all while knowing that he will probably put them in even more danger by keeping them around.

Decisions, decisions; so many decisions…

Interfering with the course of time was supposedly forbidden, yet here he was.

All in all, the same probably went for interfering with the course of fate, but he doesn't care about that. He still had chances to set things right, knowing the course of the future as it used to be.

**- o0o -**

His own face – haunted – is reflected within the frame of a broken mirror.

Then, the image distorts and the image of the Other – the one who isn't the Fourteenth – appears in his stead.

A hand reaches out, palm laid flat against the looking glass, and a voice – so similar to his own, but older and much more weary – echoes within him.

"_It'll be up to you whether or not to change it…"_

**- o0o -**

"_However, keep in mind that if you change too much…"_

**- o0o -**

"_The people you've met, the relationships you've formed… with just one decision, you might undo everything, and gradually lose your memories from this existence…"_

**- o0o -**

"_However, there's a price that must be paid…"_

**- o0o -**

"_In order to change the future, you'll have to sacrifice your past experiences, you memories, and ultimately your own self as you know it…"_

**- o0o -**

"_In my attempt to save everyone – to save humanity itself – I ended up discarding my own…"_

**- o0o -**

A bleak smile graces the other's face, and amber-coloured eyes glimmer in the darkness.

"_I told you before, didn't I?"_

He raises his own hand and places his palm flat against the cool glass surface, mirroring the other's posture as the other continues speaking.

"_Never give up your humanity…"_

The bleak smile brightens briefly, and then the other's image distorts once more.

"_You'll never be the same without it."_

He keeps his hand right where it is, but steps closer to it and leans his forehead against the looking glass, closing his eyes.

"_You'll be alright now," _the other promises him, and for once, he finds himself wanting to believe. _"You'll be alright."_

He opens his eyes, and is by no means surprised when he is greeted by his own image.

The other is no longer there, and neither will he be.

The promise – like the others – is a goodbye, and he instinctively knows it is a final one.

"_I'll be alright."_

He was, and he would be, from now on.

He had been given the tools and he had been given the time to do what needed to be done.

"_I'll be alright."_

This time around, there would still be time.

This time around, he would have time to set things right.

Time…

The comings and goings of the sun…

The waxing and waning of the moon…

The passing of seasons…

The ageing of man…

Time…

Distorted…

Disjointed…

Time…

Broken once but mended – it means little to him, yet at the same time, it means everything to him.

The course of time had been changed, its flow having been distorted.

It was high time to set things right.

The sun rises and sets and the moon waxes and wanes, occurring and reoccurring at regular intervals, just as the seasons come and go and people come and go with them.

In order to change the future, he would have to sacrifice it all – past experiences, memories, and ultimately his own self as he knows it, but it doesn't matter; it never has.

**- o0o -**

"_You're naïve. We're destroyers, not saviours."_

Words once uttered in a city of ruin, echoes one last time before fading away into obscurity.

"_I know that…" _

**- o0o -**

"_Still, I…"_

**- o0o -**

Another place, another day, another time, another fateful meeting taking place…

There is a man, a familiar pale-faced man with strange hair and seemingly gentle disposition on top of something much more feral and potentially violent. Still, that aside, the sight that meets him is mildly pathetic, but very much familiar, with a former nobleman stripped to his underwear, so obviously conned by the other players of the game – a game of poker, played against none other than the human companions of Tyki Mikk and the white form of the Noah of Pleasure himself, the latter of whom has already been eyeing him for quite some time with a keen sense of amusement, with the kind of look on his face that tells Allen that the other knows just who and what he is – though not all of it, even though that's probably what the other thinks.

Even so, he finds that he doesn't care and he joins in, retracing old memories and reinforcing them briefly, settling the score before withdrawing once more, and when the man – Aleister Crowley the Third – looks to him with something akin to awe, he smiles cheekily and offers his hand.

He knows well that he cannot save everything and everyone, but he will do everything in his power to save what little can be saved, of his old life as well as his new one. Memories – all his memories; old and new, vivid or vague – they are all precious to him, and even if he cannot keep all of them, he wants to keep them alive, if not forever, then just for a little longer.

"We're heading east. Wanna tag along?"

**- o0o -**

"_I want to be a destroyer who saves."_

**- o0o -**

He will keep on walking.

He will keep on walking, and he will change the future, step by step, no matter what…

**- o0o -**


End file.
